I can’t believe we’re returning to the garden;
trudging back to Eden.
Going back past world wars; past colonialisms;
past kingdoms; past tribes and caves and back to Babel.
Going through every floor of the tower,
rendering down every adverb and noun,
every tongue—
down to a single one . . . then that one
into incomprehensible digits
kenned only by computers and
others of their electronic ilk.
Words beyond even the mind of that being who once
longed for supplicants; for worshippers—for obedience in
that first enclosed garden.
It will be artificial, its bent and bias unknowable, ineffable.
The god of Genesis was of us, damaged
contradictory and inconsistent.
AI is built from the rib of commerce;
from the gleaming rib of greed.